Hungry as the Grave
by sewn
Summary: Mareth gets bitten, but no one gets hurt. Sort of. [Allanon/Mareth, vampire fic.]


_A/N: This story contains no explicit sexual material, but has incestuous undertones._ _Set in a canon-divergent or fix-it future with Allanon and Mareth as a druid master and an apprentice._

* * *

Allanon put off telling her until it was too late.

He prided himself on being completely honest with Mareth, telling her whenever she had made a mistake, no matter how small, or, more often, if he was in any way debilitated or unequipped and needed her to step up. Mareth grew in power every day, and hers surpassed his skills in many ways already. It was her size and brashness that were her downfall in battle, her desire to beat enemies three times her size.

It was a fight exactly like that that had lead to this situation. They had met shadows in the night, old and screeching and breathing darkness, and Allanon had no time to warn Mareth before she charged – her sword went right through a creature which turned into a swirl of black cloth and blood and her muffled sounds, and – his heart hurt, he couldn't get any breath, but somehow he remembered, and with his last strength he uttered the spell, something to ward the monsters off until another sundown.

Disoriented, he had made his way to her limp body, knelt down, relieved beyond belief to find her breathing and her heart beating, not hurt except for the bitemarks on her neck, the black blood staining her lips. It was strange to see her so weak when usually she was the one saving him.

He knew now what he should have done. He had seen she had to have ingested the creature's poisonous essence. He still thought back on it, how easy it would have been to plunge a blade through her heart right there and then – but it never even occurred to him. There was no world in which he'd hurt her, lose her, and in that moment he had felt it more strongly than ever.

She had recovered quickly and healed just as easily over the next few days. Allanon had told her about driving away the creatures, but left out the details of their nature: that they were unnatural beings who fed on blood to survive, essentially immortal, nearly impossible to kill. Mareth had accepted it, and the following weeks were almost normal. If Allanon hadn't known, he may not have noticed the subtle changes in her, her dilated pupils, her sensitivity to sounds and sensations – she complained about not sleeping well – a new fluidity to her movements. She lost her appetite, and usually Allanon would have made her eat to sustain her strength, but now he knew it would make her sick.

A month passed like this, but inevitably, the new moon arrived, the darkest of nights.

The sun was setting as they reached a hilltop that offered a view of the village in the valley below. Allanon cursed their timing silently. He had thought they wouldn't have made it this far yet. He had wanted to stay as far from civilization as possible tonight, because Mareth would need to – it made him uneasy to think about it – _feed_. A village full of warm bodies was the last thing they needed; she wouldn't be able to contain herself the first time, if what he'd learned was true.

"We should make camp in the forest," he suggested, hoping his voice didn't betray his discomfort.

"Why?" Mareth didn't look at him but stared at the village lights, a dreamy look in her eyes. "We haven't slept in real beds for weeks. Or had anything fresh to eat." Her tongue darted out to touch the corner of her mouth, and Allanon's eyes were drawn to it as he tried to catch a glimpse of her teeth.

"We will visit tomorrow. It's better not to make ourselves known at this hour." It was a good excuse: people tended to be wary of druids as it was, and even more of ones who appeared at their doorstep at night.

Allanon was relieved that Mareth relented – in fact, she showed little sign of her usual irritation at his decisions. She seemed both slow and sharp, setting up camp deep in thought, efficient without looking at what she was doing. It was exactly like he had seen described in old texts, and it was almost fascinating to see it in front of his own eyes; he found it difficult not to steal glances at her. The creeping darkness hid her features, but she was still alluring to look at, like she had gained some new glow.

His plan was to simply stay awake and do what was needed. He knew the spells, he was physically stronger, he could overpower her, as much as the thought disturbed him. Tied up, she'd only be a danger to herself - and that was a problem, too, but something they'd figure out later, when she knew what was going on. He still didn't have the heart to reveal what awaited her. It would be easier to explain afterwards, he reasoned, as she would not be able to stop herself anyway.

A simple plan, but contingent on the one task he hadn't thought he might fail.

Allanon woke up to the sound of fabric tearing. Despite his nerves, he had fallen asleep. He came to with a jump and found himself staring at Mareth destroying their bags of food. Head still foggy, he watched as she tore open a packet of dried meat, sank her teeth into it and –

She screeched and spat it out.

"Dead meat," she muttered. For a moment Allanon dared not speak but he had to -

"Mareth," he spoke her name softly. Her eyes were fixed on his face at once. They were black, the better to see in the night, and her mouth – even in the faint light of the stars, he saw them glinting, animal-sharp teeth, bared canines. "Calm down," he said carefully, getting up from his bed. "I know it hurts, but I –"

She stood up as well in one swift movement, and just as quick she had walked over and pushed him back. Allanon retreated until his back hit a tree. He held his breath as she observed him, eyes flitting from his eyes to mouth to neck. Quick like a bird.

"It does not _hurt_, father," she said. "It feels good."

Mareth leaned in closer and pushed her face into the crook of his neck. He tried his best not to move as she drew in his scent – his earlier plans of physically holding her down had been thrown to the wind, she was clearly much stronger now, drawing power from some dark energy. He felt her lips and then – she _licked_ up his neck, right over where a vein pulsed.

A high sound escaped his throat. By instinct, he tried to read her thoughts, but he only met darkness, the kind that made his mind flinch.

Allanon was scared, suddenly, utterly drenched in fear. Mareth smelled - _good_, he thought, though unlike herself, of something hidden and enticing, and her fingers dug into his chest through his clothes. Her mouth closed over his skin, right below his jaw, almost like a kiss, and he tensed up and –

There was a sound from afar, a human noise. Mareth let go of him, and Allanon took his chance and pushed her away with all of his strength. It worked, and she stumbled back, hissing but her head turned to the direction of the sound. Maybe now when she was distracted, he could – Allanon tried to think of something – he had had the rope ready but –

Mareth threw a quick look in his direction. It made him freeze in fear again, but then she was gone, sprinting through the woods like it was broad daylight and she saw every obstacle.

Part of Allanon felt relief, the animal part that only thought of survival, but just as quick he was afraid again. He might survive, but there was someone else sacrificed for it. He couldn't let that happen, he needed to be better than that – and he wanted to save Mareth from herself, he knew she would never forgive herself if –

Grabbing the rope and the silver dagger he'd pushed under his pillow, he followed. It was hard to see, but the dark thoughts that had filled Mareth's head made it easier to follow her; it was like he was drawn to her.

It didn't take long until he reached her on a small clearing where two humans had also camped to find shelter for the night, the embers of their fire still glowing. Mareth had wasted no time and she had one of them under her, hand around her throat, and the woman was kicking her legs, crying - the man had backed away, dazed.

"Mareth." Allanon forced himself to speak loudly. "Look at me."

She did. It did nothing to help the woman under her, as she didn't let go, but at least Allanon could get her attention.

"Let go," he continued and took a small step closer. "You don't want her. Her blood is weak."

Mareth just stared at him, not moving, not even breathing.

"Wouldn't -" he swallowed, and he thought her eyes tracked the movement of his throat, "- wouldn't your rather have druid blood? Thicker. Stronger. More of it." It wasn't a lie, entirely, and that thought made him more confident. His blood would replenish quickly, and he might yet survive.

"Poisonous," she whispered. "Druids are not natural. I feel it in -" and she lifted her other hand so she could tap her neck with one sharp fingernail, "- myself. I need to cleanse."

Mareth turned her attention to the sobbing human again and she -

Desperate, Allanon took out his dagger and sliced the back of his hand. It _hurt_, and he barely missed the artery, but blood burst out in full force, flowing down his fingers.

Mareth reacted in a heartbeat. She let the woman go and before Allanon could blink, he was on his back and all of her weight was on him, and she'd grabbed his wrist, nails digging into his flesh, and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

Allanon drew in a shallow breath, his lungs crushed by her weight. He turned his head just enough to see the man helping the woman up, and he told them to _run_, with the force of magic, not able to speak. Then he had no attention left except for Mareth. Her mouth was fixed on the back of his hand. She sucked, almost gently, tongue rubbing at the edges of the cut. It stung, and Allanon hissed in pain. Her left hand held him down by the throat, and her eyes were focused on his neck, almost absent-minded, until she let them close, making a soft sound, unmistakably of pleasure. Allanon gasped, throat moving painfully under her hold. Mareth had begun to rock her hips, slowly, her parted legs caging him in by his hips. Her face, her sounds, the movement - it was exactly like he imagined she would look in bed. Even the way she sucked his thumb into her mouth, teeth grazing at his skin, tongue soft but firm, it was just like he'd –

He made a sound again, bewildered and embarrassed. It seemed to draw her out of her thoughts.

"Dad," Mareth breathed out. "What –"

She let go of his hand and his throat. Her pointed ears twitched, a sign of distress.

Allanon's heart jolted. So she could -

"Mareth," he whispered. "How do you feel?"

She seemed dazed herself, shook her head. "Hungry. It hurts," she sighed.

"It's not your fault," Allanon said quickly. His hand ached and he didn't look at it. "You were bitten. Affected." He wasn't sure how to explain it all in the time he had. "You need to drink more blood." His plan had been to give her an animal to feed on, a rabbit, or if need be, draw a little from himself, just a drop to keep her alive and to keep her from turning into one of those feral things, gone mad without feeding regularly. Now – it was impossible to do anything controlled, he hurt too much, she was too far gone.

Proving his thoughts, Mareth shook her head again, as if to clear it. "You tricked me," she said.

"I'm sorry." He was beginning to feel the dread. "But you can't drink from anyone else. I'm – I'm safe, I'll heal. You can –" he wet his numb lips, "You can drink from me again. As many times as you like."

She seemed to consider it as she slid her hand up his chest again to press her cold fingertips on his neck. "You do taste good." She rolled her hips in a slow circle. "Feel good. I do want you," she said, like she was realizing something wonderful.

Mareth bent down so she could push her face into the crook of his neck again. Her right hand slid into his short hair so she could force his head back.

"Just - " Allanon continued, voice weak, "Drink from me, but please, when you feel full, let me – let me live. You don't need anyone else if you let me live."

He wasn't sure if she understood, or wanted to, but if what he'd learned was true, she'd eventually feel sated and come back to her senses. A creature like this only had one desire, and once it was fulfilled, it could be held off until the next new moon.

"We'll see," Mareth murmured, her breath cold under his ear. She moved her left hand and grabbed his shoulder instead and –

He yelled, or would have, but his throat closed up as her fangs sunk into his neck. He could feel the skin over the vein tearing apart, and then her warm wet tongue, lapping at the wound. She moaned, deep and slow, a honeyed, delirious sound as if she hadn't just inflicted a mortal wound. Her hips undulated against his, and – the sensation was so good it almost made up for the pain.

He thought he whined, an undignified sound of surrender and submission, and he felt like that, prey. Mareth licked all around his neck, letting blood pour out, and then returned to suck it away from his skin and beard with broad sweeps of her tongue. It hurt worse and worse, and he felt both hot and cold, and his vision was growing blurry, but also –

He bucked his hips to meet hers, brought his trembling hands up to gently hold her. She was relaxed, the skin of her thighs cool, and she pushed her hips down insistently, as if they were really joined, and suddenly he wished they weren't clothed, that he could touch more of her, that she could get her mouth everywhere, bite him wherever she wanted. His thoughts were slipping, head swimming, this wasn't – this wasn't something that should happen, nowhere had it mentioned how good it felt, how much he'd want this, want her.

"Mareth," he barely whispered, holding on to the last of his conscious mind. "You – you need to –"

Her grip tightened on his shoulder, but she sat up. "Dad," she said again, and her eyes were clearer. Her eyes fell on his neck again, and suddenly she let go of his hair and pushed her fingers into her mouth, coated them with saliva, stained with his blood, and pressed them hard over the wound on his neck.

"I'm sorry, that's –" she said, blinking, her actions swift but voice confused.

"It's alright," he managed as he let his heavy eyelids close. "Are you in pain?"

Mareth drew in a deep breath. "No, not anymore."

"Good." He really wanted to sleep now. As long as she was satisfied.

* * *

When Allanon awoke, the sun was up. He stayed still for a while, cataloguing the hurts in his body. His neck and hand were aching, his throat sore, but other than that he felt almost good. There was an arm wrapped around his waist, and when he turned, he woke Mareth up. She must have healed him and dragged him all the way back here.

They looked each other in the eye for a while. When Allanon cautiously reached his mind to touch hers, Mareth sighed. He could sense her, just like it should be, her guilt and relief all tangled up.

"I should have told you," he said, voice sleep-rough. "It's not your –"

"– fault, I know." Mareth was just as hoarse. "But I should have been stronger. I don't know how that could happen to me."

"It would be like that for anyone the first time."

Mareth seemed to come more awake at that. "So... there will be a next time?"

"Most likely. Until we find a cure." Allanon sighed. He didn't know if a cure even existed, he'd never heard of one, but it wouldn't stop him from trying to find it. In the meantime - "But you don't have to worry. Now we know you don't need to hurt anyone."

Mareth searched his face. Allanon could tell she was going over last night, everything she had done. He felt his cheeks warm up as she thought of how they'd both reacted, and her embarrassment echoed his. Still, she reached to touch his neck, the spot that was now healed.

"I will hurt you," she said decisively.

Allanon took her wrist, gentle, and brought her hand over his heart. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I'm yours."


End file.
